Shadow Play (23 page)

“What does that mean?” Faouda looked more frightened now, less nonchalant.

“It means you're a killer without a conscience, and you think you can get away with it. You can't. You've already been caught.” She turned towards the door, feeling worn out by Faouda. Osman held the door for her.

“What do you think?” he asked Maryam as they sat down in another office. “I think she's getting nervous,” he continued without waiting for Maryam's opinion. “She can see we've figured it out.”

“Do you think so? She seemed determined to stick to her story. But I can't help but believe she killed Aisha. It just makes so much sense to me. Ghani, I don't know.”

Osman exited the office, leaving Maryam to think without interruption. She was finishing her cigarette when Faouda was pushed through the door, looking somewhat more disheveled than she'd been
only minutes before. Perhaps she'd been running her hands through her hair: it was standing up in clumps all over her head. ““What is it now?” Maryam asked tiredly.

“I thought you wanted to ask me questions,” Faouda fought to regain her desirability in Maryam's eyes. “You were dying to talk to me.”

“That was then. Now I'm sick of you,” Maryam answered bluntly, indeed, rudely. “If you want to talk, go ahead.”

“Will it help me?”

“Help you what?”

“With the judge,” Faouda said impatiently. “If I talk to you, will it help my case?”

“I guess so,” Maryam said with little enthusiasm.

“We need to make sure,” Faouda ordered. “I want to know for certain.”

Maryam got up slowly, as though her knees hurt her. It wasn't her knees, though: she was mentally pained by Faouda's manoeuvrings. She'd been so anxious to get a confession just a few moments ago, and now, after she'd thought about it for a few minutes, she no longer cared. Convinced of her guilt, Maryam was now prepared to let the police talk to her, or the judge, or anyone other than Maryam herself.

“Where are you going?”

“I'm going home.” She turned to Faouda. “I can't play your games anymore. Call someone else.”

“But
Mak Cik
,” Faouda rose to follow her to the door, “I want to talk to you now, I'm ready.”

“Then talk. Or I'm leaving.”

Faouda pouted for a moment, and seeing it did no good at all, sat
down looking more cooperative. “I'm ready. Will you tell them …?”

Maryam's expression stopped her in mid-sentence. She picked up a cigarette instead and waited for Maryam to sit down.

“OK,” Faouda began, a wary eye on Maryam. “You're right.”

“Wait!” Maryam ordered. She went to the door and called for Osman. “I want him to hear this too.”

Faouda looked as though she might argue, but then thought better of it, and subsided into silence until Osman was settled. “OK,” she began again, “You were right,
Mak Cik.
I did think to make Aisha sick. Not to kill her, mind. It wasn't me who killed her, but I did make her sick.”

“Go on,” Maryam ordered her.

“I had some … stuff. You know,” Faouda started.

“
Kecubong
?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I had it when I came up here.”

“How long had you had it?” Maryam asked.

Faouda saw where she was leading, but saw no way to avoid it. “Well, I had it for a while.” Maryam raised her eyebrow. “OK. I prepared it when I was still married to Yahya. You don't know how tough it is to be a second wife,” she burst out. “The first wife always looks down on you. I was sick of it: she looked at me like I was dirt.

“And then, you know, this Yahya wasn't all that generous. How was I going to live when he was giving all his money to her? He really wanted to marry me,” she directed this confidence to Osman, who was scribbling furiously. “But when he did, after a while he didn't want to give me enough money to live on. God forbid I had a baby! Who knows what would have happened then?”

“Where did you get it?”

“The
kecubong
? It grows in the jungle, you know. It's not that hard to find.”

“I'm surprised there's anyone in Kuala Krai left alive.”

Faouda gave her a sour look. “Yeah. Well, I got it. But then I started “thinking, ‘What's the point?' I couldn't see staying with him forever.”

“Is that when you met Johan?” She nodded and looked uncomfortable.

“So?”

“So I decided not to do anything. I wanted a divorce from Yahya and I knew it wouldn't be any trouble. He was tired of having two wives by then. I could see that. So I never used it. But I still had it.”

“And then you met Ghani,” Maryam prodded her.

She nodded. “We fell in love so quickly. We got married right away, just carried away by being in love.” Maryam tried not to gag. “Now, I thought I'd want to stay with Ghani forever. I really believed it then.” It was hard for Maryam to remember that this was really not so long ago: Faouda spoke as though eons had already passed.

“So when I went up to Kota Bharu, I brought my powder with me. I wasn't going to kill her, honest.” She opened her eyes as wide as she could and looked into Osman's face. He didn't react. “I thought …” She took a deep breath. “I thought if she just got sick, you know, she'd go back to her parents or something and Ghani would forget about her. It happens, you know. I've heard about things like that working out.”

Maryam shrugged. “She gave you a cup of tea when you showed up at her house, didn't she?”

“She did. She had one too. She wanted to choke me, but she was really very polite. Wonderful manners,” she offered a grudging complement. “So while she was preparing something, I put it in her tea. She didn't taste it.”

“All of it?” Maryam was suddenly struck by a thought. “Did you put all of it in her tea?”

“No.” Faouda clamped her mouth shut.

“What did you do with the rest of it?”

“I threw it away.”

Maryam shook her head. “No, you didn't. What did you do with it?

Faouda hung her head. “I put it in the box of tea she had.”

“Where was she that you could get to the box of tea?”

Faouda looked ashamed. “Getting cakes.”

“Getting cakes for you!” Maryam was astounded.

“Really,” Faouda shook her head. “I couldn't believe it either! She was so polite.”

Chapter XXVI

The doctor met them in his dilapidated office at Kota Bharu General Hospital. His small office featured a depressing colour scheme of dirty cream and faded green and was furnished with a battered desk covered with files and four equally battered chairs. The doctor waved for them to sit, and took his own seat behind the desk. He brought a grimy ash tray out from his top drawer and set it at the summit of the sturdiest pile. He offered cigarettes all around, assured them the tea lady was on her way, and settled down to business.

He was an older man, with a lined face and bright eyes, his grey hair bearing the marks of his hands running through it. He looked rumpled but kindly, and when he smiled, Maryam could easily see why people trusted him with their lives.

“Aisha binte Ramli, you say,” he asked them, shuffling though files perched on the window sill behind him. It took him a while to find the file, and he opened it in front of him, taking care not to drop ashes on it. Maryam and Osman waited patiently.

“A sad case,” he commented. “Poisoning. I hate that.”

Maryam agreed. “What kind of poisoning,
Tuan
Doctor?”

He looked again. “
Kecubong.
Kind of strange. It looks as though it had been going on a while. I mean, she'd been taking the poison over a period of days or weeks, not all at once.”

“Was she given opium as well?”

“Why do you ask?”

“The
bomoh
in my
kampong
…” Maryam suddenly wondered whether doctors cared to hear what
bomoh
thought, but it was too late. “He said he thought there might be opium mixed in.”

The doctor nodded. “It's hard to tell. The
kecubong
was obvious. You could see it in tests. We weren't looking for opium right away, and the family forbade an autopsy. They took her body right away. So, you can see, there isn't any way for me to confirm that.”

They nodded. “But if it was
kecubong
only, Doctor, would it have led to the same outcome?” She put it as delicately as she knew how.

He thought for a moment. “Probably. Let me put it this way: if there was opium involved, it would be consistent with the symptoms, but I can't prove there was. I can prove
kecubong.”

Maryam looked over at Osman. He cleared his throat, not having prepared to speak during this meeting. “If it goes to trial, Doctor, would you be prepared to testify to that?”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, of course, I would. Poor thing. She was so young. She left young children, too, I see. What will happen to them?”

“Her brother's taking them,” Maryam told him, feeling very proud of Ali. “He's getting married and they're taking the kids as their own.”

“Wonderful.” He stood up. “Is there anything else?”

“No, thank you so much,
Tuan
Doctor,” Maryam said gratefully. “You've been such a help to us.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Osman extended his hand. “We will be in touch for the trial.”

The doctor smiled and walked them to the door. He walked away down the corridor, running his hands through his already disheveled hair, his mind focused on his work ahead.

Chapter XXVII

It was late afternoon. The air became cooler as shadows covered more of the ground. Maryam and Rubiah revisited Ali in his parents' home. Grief now hung heavy on the house.

Azizah greeted them spiritlessly, and called to Ali to speak to them. He came onto the porch in a clean
sarong
and T-shirt, his hair still wet from a recent bath. “
Mak Cik,”
he greeted them, inviting them to sit in the shade of the porch

He waited for them to start. In the silence, his sister came quietly with coffee and cakes and served them with a polite smile. Maryam and Rubiah exchanged glances – was no one speaking here anymore? Ali seemed to rouse himself: had he seen their looks? He waved his hand over the cups and plates. “Please,” he said.

“Ali,” Maryam began, “I'm so sorry. I really am.” She took a deep breath. “I really think you're wonderful for taking Aisha's children. You're a wonderful brother.”

Ali waved again, dismissing Maryam's praise.

“I think we've found who killed your sister.”

Ali's head jerked up, and he nearly leapt to his feet. “Who is it
Mak Cik?”
he asked intently. “Tell me, please!”

“Faouda,” Maryam said softly.

“Faouda!” Ali shouted, bringing his mother to the door.

“What happened?” she asked. Her face was etched with grief, and Maryam worried about causing her more hurt.

“It was Faouda who killed Aisha,” Ali told her, breathless with excitement. “I knew she did it.” He pounded his thigh.

“Faouda?” Azizah asked, looking as though she would cry. “She killed my daughter?” She buried her face in her hands.

Ali stood to comfort her. “Is she going to jail,
Mak Cik?”
he asked. “She's going to be prosecuted, isn't she?”

Maryam nodded. “She's already in jail, and she'll be tried for murder.”

“Convicted, too,” Rubiah added. “You can bet on it.”

Azizah had sunk to the floor and was sitting in the doorway. “Tell me how she did it,” she asked through tears. “My poor Aisha.”

“Poison.” Maryam was becoming uncomfortable. They'd find out anyway, she reasoned, if nowhere else than during the trial. It was better they know now, and be prepared, than to be shocked in public. She hesitated. “
Kecubong.”

Aisha's mother thought for a moment. “ “From the jungle? She must have brought it here from Kuala Krai then”

Maryam and Rubiah nodded, and Azizah began crying again. Maryam squirmed slightly, not wishing to say what came next. “She put it in her tea, and then more in the box of tea.”

Azizah and her son stared open-mouthed at Maryam. “No,” Ali finally managed.

Maryam nodded miserably.

“No,” he repeated. “So, when I…” he swallowed hard. “When I brought Aisha back from seeing Ghani, and she was crying, and I made her tea to make her feel better…” he couldn't go on. “I killed my own
sister!” He looked frantic.

“No!” Maryam surprised herself with the vehemence of her reply. “No, you did not!” She looked towards his mother for help, but she was crouched and no longer paying attention. Rubiah jumped into the breach.

“Ali!” Rubiah cried, shaking his shoulders. “You did nothing! Faouda poisoned her the first night she was here. You had nothing to do with it. You tried your best to save her! You can't think like that! It's wrong, do you hear me?”

The commotion on the porch brought his father to the door. “What's all this?” he asked angrily. “What are you all talking about?” He looked down at his wife next to him and petted her hair with indescribable tenderness. “Well?”

“Ayah,” Ali answered. “They've found out who killed Aisha?”

“You have?” he demanded.

“Yes,” Maryam began nodding again. “Faouda.”

He was silent for a moment. “I knew it. Look at the evil Ghani brought into our family,” he raged. “He killed Aisha as sure as if he plunged a knife into her heart. Faouda! She should be cursed; she should be plagued by pain and sorrow for the rest of her days.”

Maryam and Rubiah gave the full sad account one more time. At the end of it, Aisha's mother slumped over again in deep grief.

Her husband helped her up off the porch and guided her indoors. “Thank you,
Kak,”
he added over his shoulder.